


Maybe In Our Next Life We'll Be Happy

by akelios



Category: Batman (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, M/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24201676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akelios/pseuds/akelios
Summary: Sometimes all you can do is start over as someone else.
Relationships: Talia al Ghul & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Ra's al Ghul, Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Comments: 13
Kudos: 91





	1. Jason

**Author's Note:**

> As difficult as this might become to believe, this actually started as a Hallmark romance/cozy mystery sort of idea. 
> 
> And then I remembered who I am and it became less cozy. But still! Romance! Mystery! 
> 
> Much love and thanks to **forestgreen** for beta reading, encouragement, and putting up with being sold a cute fic idea that turned on us both. All remaining mistakes are my own.

“How do you feel?” Talia’s voice is soft, unintrusive. Still, there is a quality about it that cannot be ignored, that should never be ignored.

Jason opens his eyes and frowns, focusing on the window behind Talia. Clouds race across the bright blue sky. The rage is still there, tight and burning in his chest, flames licking at the back of his mind. But the world is not tinted green - there’s no voice whispering madness to him from deep inside his soul. 

“Better.” He licks his lips, tries to unfold his legs from where they’ve been crossed for hours, but finds himself stiffly frozen into place, muscles locked up. “Shit!” Jason winces, forces his legs out anyway, and pushes down the reflex to apologize for his language. 

Talia watches for a moment, amusement clear in her eyes, before she rises from her own position. Smoothly, easily, as though she hasn’t been sitting there for just as long as he has. She pours herself a drink, back to him to allow him some dignity as he wriggles and squirms into a standing position, muscles coming back to life in painful tingling waves. 

It’s embarrassing. He used to be better than this, used to be able to sit on the top of a roof for hours to watch some nutjobs bolthole if need be. Jason clenches his teeth and breathes through the bubble of rage that he can feel rising in his throat. 

“I am not the Pit, the rage will not control me.” Jason makes each breath take longer than necessary, draws out the inhale before letting it whistle out between his teeth. It only takes a couple of breaths before the rage pops, gone like the figment that it was. When he looks up, Talia is holding out a cup of water, sipping from her own. 

“The Pit can restore life, Jason, it cannot restore training and tone. Or strength. You will regain what you have lost, but you must work for it. You know this.”

“I know. It’s still…” He shrugs, takes the cup and drinks so he won’t have to finish the sentence. Talia knows. 

“Patience is a hard won lesson.” Talia smiles and walks to the window, loose shirt moving in the breeze that is just beginning to break up the stillness of the room. “I have arranged for some teachers for you, people who can help you regain your strength, help you learn new skills.” She turns her head enough to see him, dark hair sliding over her shoulder, strands catching the sunlight and almost glowing with a riot of colors.

“I’m not gonna fight Bruce for you, or your dad.” Jason clenches his hand around the cup, cool and solid. He feels like the earth is shifting beneath his feet half the time, but he knows this. He will not fight Bruce. 

“I know. My battle with my father is on my terms, and you are not…” She sighs, her face kind. “You are not a suitable weapon for that war, I am afraid. You’re too forgiving. Bruce failed you. Then he failed to avenge you. The Joker lives, and for all his sins, Ra’s would never allow that. _My_ father would avenge me.” Talia shrugs, her face turning unreadable. “If you will not wage your own war, that is your choice. So. What will you do?”

~1 year later~

The alarms scream all around him as Jason charges up to the top of the guard tower with the rest of the security team, counting down the seconds in his head. 

There’s an average response time of one minute to the guard towers, which is never going to be fast enough, not for the monsters they keep locked up in here, but it works to his benefit. One minute from the alarm being set off inside the cell blocks for the second wave of guards to get into position along the outer walls of the exercise yard. He makes sure that he’s first through the door, to be certain that none of the other guards grab the wrong gun. 

Fitzsimmons hits the switch that disables the outer gates, ensuring that even if some of the prisoners get into the yard, they won’t be able to get the doors open, won’t be able to get further than the cramped yard. It’s a new system, to replace the last ‘fail proof’ one that had let Zsasz and half a dozen others out three months before. 

It’s doomed to fail, but for now it will hold and that’s all Jason needs. 

The alarms are maddening, but this is a house of madness, so it makes sense. 

Five minutes will bring the GCPD into the game, will bring SWAT and Gordon maybe, if he’s up and about the office at this time of night. Jason hopes he is. 

Three minutes, however, is the likely response time for Bruce. 

Bruce and the Replacement and anyone else he has on hand. 

Not Superman, who could be here in seconds from anywhere in the world, who could quell this riot with a minimum of effort. No. Not that, because Bruce does things his way, and what would he do with himself if he didn’t have a madhouse to fight? 

Make the world a better place, maybe.

But that gives Jason two minutes to play with, and that’s plenty.

Screams and laughter grow louder, echoing up out of the belly of the building. As though they’ve always just been background noise until you can’t ignore them any longer. 

Hatter is first through the door, giggling and stumbling, almost looking startled to find himself having gotten that far. The tide that follows him is a roiling mix of guards, doctors and nurses, all fleeing the worse monsters behind them. There’s blood on some of the victims, and Jason pushes himself into position at the window, rifle familiar and comfortable in his hands. 

Ivy and Zsasz himself come out next, and Jason considers it for a second, but then Zsasz takes a swipe at Ivy and she’s slamming him through a section of chain link fencing and into a wall. The vines that hiss and curl around her have wicked looking spikes running their length and Zsasz is bloody and unconscious faster than Jason can blink. He huffs out a laugh and ignores the orders being barked around him. Jason’s job, ‘Freddy the Guard’s’ job, is to keep anyone from getting to the fleeing civilians. Ivy can definitely take care of herself.

He and the other guards take careful, well aimed shots. Not looking to kill, but to warn. To wound if need be. Arkham is, after all, a place for second chances. Or third, or fourth, or hundredth. 

More monsters begin to enter the yard some familiar faces from a lifetime ago, and some he’s only gotten to know as Freddy. The clock is ticking down quickly in his head, one minute since he hit the tower, only a minute left in the best scenario, and there’s still no sign-

The cackle of laughter reaches his ears before the pallid face of the Joker peeks around the corner of the door. Jason’s stomach drops. His hand shakes and for a second he can see nothing but red and black shadows clawing across his vision. He adjusts the rifle, seats the butt against his shoulder, and forces himself to look through the scope. Steady.

Jason’s shoulders ache with the ghosts of long healed wounds, and he swears he can feel the sharp pain of shattering bones. The red recedes, leaving flickers of black and bright green around his vision. But not overwhelming, not controlling. 

Jason breathes, steadies himself, and watches the Joker dance out from the safety of cover, dragging a shaking doctor with him. The woman is terrified, and there is blood dripping down her dark, shocked face from a head wound. But she’s on her feet, even if her steps are a weaving testimony of pain and terror. 

The Joker is saying something, whirling around and around, looking up at the sky. 

Waiting for his favorite playmate to arrive. 

Jason breathes, and waits, and on the next spin, when the doctor the Joker is dragging around like a doll stumbles, he pulls the trigger. 

There’s a second, an infinity, where Jason could swear that he watches the bullet move through the air. That he watches the tip of it glint in the bright yard lights a moment before impact, before it takes the Joker between the eyes. Blood and brains explode out the back of the Joker’s head, and he stops mid laugh, mouth agape. The mad crowd falls silent in a wave, those closest to the Joker realizing what has happened and freezing, until the knowledge has spread through the yard like a blessing. 

The doctor doesn’t move from where she’s fallen, but Jason can see that she has taken what cover she can, curled up small with her arms shielding her head. She’s probably thinking that running will set the rest of the madmen off. Smart. 

Joker falls, nothing left of his face but the blood spattered grin.

There’s silence in the tower too, and Jason makes himself shake, makes himself pull back from the window and turn to the men in the tower around him.

Jason meets their eyes and there’s nothing obvious, no smiles, no nods. But they each and every one of them turn away from him with no judgment in their bodies and go back to doing their work, until the silence is filled back up. Shots begin to echo around him from the other guards’ guns, and Jason knows that there will be wounded and maybe dead. But it’s no longer his problem. He moves to lean the rifle against the wall, with the other spares, but a gloved hand reaches out to take it from him and Jason meets the eyes of his sergeant, and there’s a smile there. The man takes the rifle as he moves to take up Jason’s empty position and finally there is no one looking at him. 

Jason slips out of the tower, down into the halls of the outer wall and merges with the mass of wounded there. He hears the near silent whine of the Batplane, thirty seconds later than he’d planned for and that’s nothing but a disappointment. 

Late again, Bruce.

Eventually, when the cops arrive, Jason helps carry one of the wounded guards out - the man’s right knee is shattered but he’s still trying to walk, trying to insist that they take someone else first. Jason leaves the wounded man in an ambulance and takes a second to look up into the sky, to see the plane silhouetted against the moon. 

And then he disappears into the dark.


	2. Tim

It comes down to an issue of timing. 

Bruce, back from the dead, is reluctant to leave Gotham for long. But an invitation from the Kents, well. He won’t turn them down. The perfect family, welcoming him to their table? Letting the little boy in him pretend that he belongs, even for a little while? 

Not something he can let pass him by. 

Bruce goes, and he’ll be gone for three days. 

Cass is in Hong Kong, though he doesn’t know that she would have a problem with this. Cass is...more understanding of things. But the point is to make the break clean. To leave no bleeding hearts behind. So it’s better that she’s living her life, and that Steph has gone to spend some time with her. 

Alfred, for all that he might be the best of them, is distracted with Dick and Damian being in the house and with his joy at having Bruce back. The love of a father for his son should never be underestimated in its ability to blind. 

Dick is busy with Damian, and Damian is busy _being_ Damian, which is a combination of monstrousness but also being ten years old. 

Still, Tim tracks down Two-Face, who has been out for an astonishing ten months this time around. He lets whispers and shadows do the work, setting Two-Face up for a crime that he can’t resist - twin sets of diamond jewelry made for the second set of twins in a marriage of twins. Beautiful and old, the museum has the best security and Dick has a history with Two-Face that cannot be ignored. 

He sends the push through his factotum at the last second, takes the call from Dick at Titans Tower and has Kon fly him in to help cover the city at the request of his former brother. Everything looks good. Last minute. 

Chaotic and unpredictable.

Tim is on the other side of the city when the call goes out that there’s a break-in in progress at a WayneTech facility. He calls it, just so that Oracle and Dick know where he is. Protocol. He gets there in time to shield the cops that show up, to keep pressure on the wound in Officer Evans’ side until the paramedics arrive. 

By that point Harkness has run out of options. 

He’s with Freeze. 

Tim follows protocol, reports over the radio that it’s Harkness. He can hear Dick’s hesitation, the worry in his voice. Dick knows what Harkness did to Tim’s father. He can hear the disdain in Damian’s question of ‘who?’. But they’re neck deep in Two-Face goons and Dick can’t get there in time, can’t leave Damian by himself. Not against Two-Face, who has grown madder in the years since the Joker died. 

Tim assures Dick that he won’t engage, just track and isolate. 

Protocol. 

“Trust me,” he says to Dick over the coms, knowing that Dick wants to. Dick’s faith in his family is almost overwhelming.

“Keep an eye on him, O. Robin and I will be there as soon as we can.” Dick’s voice gets deeper at the end, dropping into the Batman range. “You won’t be alone for long, Red.”

Tim makes a disgruntled noise deep in his throat, loud enough for the mic to pick it up. Dick’s faith is overwhelming, but he’s not an idiot. He knows, intimately, the burning need to avenge a parent’s murder. Dick may have faith in his family, but he knows he can't completely trust Tim here.

It’s fine. 

Dick really shouldn’t trust any of them as much as he does. It’s a flaw.

He knows that Oracle will activate the camera in his mask’s lenses at this point, imagines that he can hear the hum of machinery coming online though he knows that that’s not possible. He tracks Harkness as though he doesn’t know where the man is going, makes the work look good. 

He’s a very good detective.

He knows how to fake it.

Tim ‘finds’ the warehouse where Freeze has been hiding out for three months. He sneaks up onto the roof and moves carefully, avoiding traps and knocking out guards as he goes. All on record. All clean. 

By the time he makes his way over to the sky light, there are shouts. A scream and a flash of brilliant, cold blue light. Tim runs, crashes through the window with his cape wrapped around him, heavy boots slamming into Freeze’s back. He doesn’t let himself focus on any one thing, too busy fighting and taking out Freeze before the man has a chance to turn his weapon on Tim. 

There are no guards in the chamber, and the ones on the roof must have been the best of them. Freeze has never been the most powerful of the Gotham rogues. Tim takes out the few goons who come stumbling in after his crash, hissing out responses to Oracle’s questions in his ear. 

When it’s over he’s shaking, cold, and there’s blood from a graze running sluggishly down the outside of his left thigh. 

“Red Robin?” Oracle- Babs’ voice is quiet. Heavy. “Batman and Robin are en route.”

“Freeze is down. Ten goons under control.” Tim gets his breathing under control, lets himself turn slowly, to face the consequences of his actions. He knows that the cameras caught it in the mele. Knows that Barbara knows what has happened. 

What he needs her to think has happened. 

It’s...better than he had hoped for. 

Boomerang is frozen, mouth open in a shout, blood a shimmer of red from the corner of his lips. One of his own boomerangs is buried in his throat. The blood spray has frozen in place, a crimson flower sprouting from pale flesh.

The force from Freeze’s gun is extreme, if you’re not aware and ready for it. Harkness had been about to throw, or had more likely already thrown his boomerang. The ice had caught the deadly blade and returned it to Harkness. 

“Harkness needs medical assistance.” He keeps his voice shaking, but not out of control. There’s a line to be tread here. “The ice may have kept him from bleeding out.”

“Red- _Tim_.” Barbara’s voice wavers, briefly. It’s more telling that she breaks protocol. His name over the coms is tender. “Get to the roof. I’ve got this.”

He goes.

Dick arrives, without Damian. 

Tim knows he has Oracle to thank for that. 

There’s silence between them while they watch the police arrive, and then the ambulance. Tim lets Dick wrap his arms around him, lets himself be hidden by Batman’s cape one last time as they thaw Harkness out enough to establish that there is no coming back, that the damage is too extensive. 

Harkness never draws another breath. 

Tim shudders, feels the comforting press of Dick’s arms and lets himself sag in relief. Dick thinks he’s collapsing, and holds him tighter. 

“Go back to base, I’ll take care of the rest.”

“I can handle this.” Tim stands straighter, pulls out of Dick’s embrace. 

“But you don’t have to. Go. Let Agent A feed you.”

Tim turns, fakes a stumble on the gravel roof and lets Dick catch him. 

“Okay.” He whispers it, lets himself sound small. “Okay.” 

It’s later, after he’s showered and fed and in his old room at the Manor, once Dick has finished circling like the gangliest mother hen of all time and finally gone to bed that Tim slips the _other_ earbud in his ear. There are no recording devices in his room - none that will show anything other than him sleeping restlessly at any rate. 

There’s nothing but a low hum of white noise from the earbud for a long time, and Tim turns off the lights, lays back on his pillows and closes his eyes. He’s starting to drift off to real sleep by the time there’s a solid click in his ear. 

“How does it feel?”

“Like nothing.” Tim breathes, imagines himself in a room filled with the cold, clean air of the mountains and a roaring fire. A chess board, always mid-game, before him. “My dad told me something once. ‘The easiest thing in the world to predict is human nature. You can always count on bad people making dumb decisions.’ He was right about the first part, at least.”

“With time and experience, there is little that cannot be predicted. Controlled.” Ra’s hums to himself, and Tim can hear the gentle splash of tea being poured. “But what will you do now, Detective?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get a murder, and YOU get a murder!!!


	3. Jason

There’s always a last minute rush of students getting seats on the first day of class. 

Jason ignores it, finishing up the list of assignments on the whiteboard. Sure, the syllabus has everything, and sure, he could just use the computer screen hooked to his laptop, but there’s something he really enjoys about writing on the whiteboard. Feels official in a way that the computer doesn’t. Also, it forces the kids to at least look at the front of the room for a few minutes before they vanish into taking notes. Lets him get a good look at all of their faces - match ID’s to names in person. 

He gives everyone an extra five minutes, until whispers and jokes have died down and all of the students are in their seats and ready to listen. 

“All right! Good morning everyone. I’m Ethan Spencer and I’ll be teaching - ” 

The classroom door creaks open, a loud screech of noise that cuts through the normal rumbling of voices. Jason rolls his eyes and looks up, ready to shame whoever was this late just a little - he’s not an asshole, but he does expect punctuality. Whatever he would have said dies on his tongue. 

The Replacement is hurrying down the stairs, glasses askew and long dark hair flying free. He’s not breathing hard, Jason would be concerned if he was, but Tim Drake is doing his best impression of someone who is lost and rushing around. 

“Hi! So, so sorry! I’m uh, this is 18th Century Literature, right?” Tim is holding out a slip - late registration, Jason is sure. Shit. Shit. “Professor?”

Jason grabs the slip and glances over it like it matters. There’s no sign of recognition on the Replacement’s face, but he’s Bat trained. If he came here expecting to find Jason, there wouldn’t be any sign. But why would they...there’s no reason. Jason has been careful. He’s running over the last few years in his mind, trying to figure out where he could have slipped up.

“Not a professor, not yet. Ethan Spencer, TA. Mr….Hardison?” Jason can feel one of his eyebrows rising, almost against his will. 

“Cole. Sorry. I’m uh, a late transfer. It won’t happen again.” He holds out his hand and Jason hands back the slip. 

“See that it doesn’t, Mr. Hardison. Find a seat.”

The Replacement smiles, a good Wayne smile, and hurries to find a seat. Jason sighs, and gets back to work, giving his standard intro and instructions almost on automatic. Maybe the Replacement is here for another case. Well.

Jason’s worked too hard to get where he is to just cut and run because he got spooked.

He needs to figure out what the Bats are doing invading his town.

The back of his neck itches the rest of the day. Jason can’t just drop everything to poke around and figure out what the Bats know, and why they’ve sent Batman Junior to his little Colorado town. He has classes to teach, homework to review, his own dissertation to work on.

He has students coming to him for help, kids he taught the year before, his first TA year which had gone a lot less terribly than it could have. New students who don’t understand something, or are worried about the class loads. He doesn’t look Tim/Cole up in the student database. If he’s here on a case then Oracle will be watching for extra interest in his ‘identity’. And the Bats are too good for there to be holes in the cover anyway.

He has meetings and lunch with Professor Ford, his advisor. His mentor. His friend. Jason has errands to run - groceries and a stop to check on his bike, still in the shop being cleaned up before being moved to storage for the winter.

Jason has a life here, and he lives it as if nothing has changed for the rest of the day. He stops at The Barber Shop, the most oddly named coffee shop he’s ever run into, and picks up the new batch of teas that Beth has ordered in for him. She tries, always, to get him to take a cup of coffee, but he laughs as if his skin isn’t crawling and resists her attempts to seduce him to the dark side. 

By the time Jason makes it back to his apartment - a little too nice, honestly, for a student as deep into school debt as he should be, but he couldn’t resist - it’s almost dark and Jason can feel one of his eyes starting to twitch. 

Jason goes through all the normal motions. 

Groceries away, strip and change into sweats and a comfortably loose, faded t-shirt. 

He sweeps the apartment for new bugs while he’s watering the plants and turning the TV to Food Network. Mindless background noise for studying and relaxing. Jason finds two new bugs, both in the living room and both of League design. 

At least Talia is respecting their deal - no spying in the bedroom or the bathroom. He smashes the bugs anyway, but not before giving the one with video capabilities a big smile. Everything disposed of, a little bit of the tension that’s been with him since the Replacement stumbled into the classroom leaves him. If they’re here for him, they haven’t made it into his apartment. 

He puts the kettle on the stove, starts heating up some water. The sun is still just peeking over the horizon, and normally he’d leave the shades open for another few minutes just to watch the colors play over the brickwork of the buildings across the street. But today it’s too much, garish, and Jason has had about all that he can stand. He works his way back around the apartment and closes every shade - he checks for bugs again, but there’s nothing. 

Jason works on neatening up his office, the second small bedroom that he couldn’t resist, until the kettle whistles. When he wanders back into the office he’s carrying his tea, warm and soothing lemon scent wafting up around him and a hastily thrown together sandwich. 

His computer doesn’t look like much - battered and covered in stickers that declare his love of the SCA and Tolkien. The important thing about a computer, of course, is really what’s on the inside. It takes a few minutes to establish the connection he wants, and for the security systems to run and assure him that no one is watching. 

Well.

No one he doesn’t already know about.

Jason sends out a quick message before starting his own search. He’s nowhere near as good as Babs, but the League has never been known to slack and his teachers were more than capable. He pokes gently, but systematically, looking around the fringes of Gotham’s electronic footprint. 

It’s strange, he hasn’t kept much of an eye on Gotham the past years. There’s been no need. His business there was done, and Bruce could keep lighting himself on fire in an effort to save the fucking place if he wanted. Jason had done more than his share, taking out the Joker. He didn’t owe Gotham anything. Still, there’s a shiver of anxiety that runs through him at the sight of the old buildings, of the places that he used to run and own with the blood and sweat of his work. 

So many things have changed, but the soul of the city is thriving. Dark, murderous and alive.

Jason reads over the reports of Batman’s change, he knows that Bruce had been dead for a little while - Talia had been preparing to steal some of his blood before that had been handled - though he’s not sure what she’d planned to do with a clone. Not really sure he wanted to know, come to that. He recognizes Dick in the Batsuit for a little while, and the new little asshole in the Robin suit. Can’t help but admire the spikes on the gauntlets, the acceptance that blood will be shed. 

The Replacement. _Red Robin_. Jason snorts, chokes on his tea and laughs as he coughs. 

“Doctor Mid-Nite is gonna want his schtick back, you little shit.” There are fewer legitimate shots of the Replacement, just enough hints that Jason can see the fringes of a pattern. Not lethality - Bruce and Dick would never stand for it. But practicality. 

Jason could almost admire it, if the asshole weren’t such an...asshole. 

The reports of Tim Drake-Wayne stepping down from the active running of Wayne Enterprises once Bruce comes back are tinged with disappointment. After all, the company had finally had a competent Wayne at the helm, someone that Lucius could actually teach to take over one day, and then they’d lost it in under a year. 

Jason’s half surprised the board hadn’t tried to have Bruce assassinated so they could keep Tim the Perfect.

Still, Tim the Impeccable steps down, slowly. Hands Wayne Enterprises back to Bruce and just...slips into the shadows. There are gradually fewer and fewer reports of him until everything stops three months back. Nothing to raise suspicions. No bad behavior, no scandals. Just a gradual descent into hermit-hood so that the reporters lose interest and start focusing on Bruce and Damian and that mess.

God, what he wouldn’t give to have been a fly on the wall when that little shit showed up. The press must have collectively wet themselves when an actual illegitimate heir to the playboy Wayne appeared.

Jason had met Damian, briefly, when Talia had been training him. She hadn’t been especially thrilled to find Jason skulking around the compound where Damian was being raised, but she hadn’t been surprised either. 

Jason hadn’t cared, at the time, that Bruce had a secret kid. After all, he hadn’t done very well with the ones he’d known about, what would he do with another one. Ruin him too, probably.

Nothing he finds points to a case going on that would lead them to him. Or to Colorado. It’s just not in their usual purview. Of course, there’s no way for him to get into the network that Babs has set up, no way to break the security around the Batcomputers. It would require a lot more power than what he has at his disposal, and a lot more skill. 

He leans back, finishes off the last couple bites of his sandwich, and gets ready to play a couple hands of solitaire. 

It’s another hour before the VOIP chirps at him. 

Jason clicks over and smiles as Talia’s face comes into focus. 

He’s ninety percent sure that the dark smear on her cheek is blood. 

“Hey.”

Talia sighs and leans back in her chair. A cup of tea is handed to her from offscreen, and she breathes in the scent before taking a sip. 

“Really, Jason. I know you learned better manners.”

“True, but I am on my own. I’ve reverted to my natural state.” He picks up his own mug of tea and turns it so Talia can see the quote on the side. 

She sniffs, and Jason knows it’s a laugh. 

“Really. I would have thought it would be Austen, not Mitchell.” They smile at one another for a quick second, but there is movement behind Talia and Jason knows she doesn’t have long. 

“So, I got a surprise today.” Jason curls his hand around the mug and lets the lingering warmth of his second cup of tea seep into his fingers. 

“A….surprise.”

“Yeah. A little birdie flew into my class this morning. Going by a new name and everything.” 

One eyebrow goes up and the dark smear cracks and flakes a little. Definitely blood. 

“Do tell.” 

“‘Cole Hardison’. Doesn’t seem to belong, if you ask me. Kind of like finding a cuckoo in a robin’s nest, you know?”

Talia had been the one to call Tim a cuckoo, back when she’d still thought that she might be able to enrage Jason enough to go after the Bats. The nickname had felt appropriate, when Jason wasn’t particularly filled with anger.

“Hmm. A cuckoo. How...interesting.” Talia raises one hand out of sight, but he assumes she’s gesturing someone over. “I assume he hasn’t actually spoken to you.” 

“Not so you’d notice. Just the normal stuff, if he were who he says he is. I didn’t find any new pests in my apartment, other than yours.”

Talia rolls her shoulders in a shrug, but there’s no smile on her face. 

“I don’t track that bird, specifically. I will look into what I can. However,” She sighs and looks up at someone beside her before turning back to the screen. “However. There may be a limit to what I can do. If I press too hard, there are other parties that are...interested in that particular bird who might be alerted. And that is not attention that I would welcome, at this moment.”

“Who?” 

Talia simply stares at him, her eyes dark and judgmental. Lips pressed tightly together.

It still takes a second to register.

“You’re shitting me.”


	4. Tim

“No.” Tim shifts the bag of Chinese takeout in his hands and glares at his reflection in the dull metal of the elevator. It must look worse than he thinks it does, since the other man in the elevator flinches and edges a little further away. Tim swallows back a sigh and tries to squash the thought that it serves the man right for staring at a stranger in an elevator. Still, he wants to fit in. Best not to terrorize the neighbors right away. He smiles apologetically and rolls one shoulder up in a half-shrug, half gesture to the bluetooth in his ear. The man nods, and smiles back, obviously relieved to not be trapped with a madman.

And finally turns around to face the doors, like a normal human being.

“Timothy. This is a ridiculous state of affairs.” There’s a silence that Tim knows is Ra’s swallowing down the argument he really wants to make. “While I applaud your desire to continue your education, I believe that you are-”

“I’m almost to my floor. Hurry up or I hang up.”

“You are going to grow bored.”

“Maybe.” Ra’s isn’t wrong. Tim knows he’s not wrong. But still. “I’ll get a hobby. Competitive ballroom dancing or something.” The elevator stops and the other man gets off. Tim knows he isn’t imagining the relieved look disguised as a smile that the man shoots him before the doors close. Tim leans against the back wall and sighs.

“I can do this.”

“You are remarkable, Timothy.” And there is genuine affection in Ra’s voice, a fact that makes something in Tim flush warm. It’s fucked up. That doesn’t stop Tim from smiling, a little. “I have no doubt that you can find a way to survive the choices you have made. That does not mean that I believe it is in your best interests. You have a habit of becoming….reckless. When your needs are not met.”

“Please never talk about my needs again.” Tim pushes off the back of the elevator wall and pulls a disgusted face at himself in his reflection. “I don’t want to have to talk to HR about you.”

There’s a sigh on the other end of the line.

“Timothy.”

“I know.” The elevator shudders to a stop at Tim’s floor. “I know. I’ll be fine. I can handle this. I’ve gotta go, Ra’s.”

“Be well, Timothy. I will speak to you again.”

“Yeah.” Tim ends the call as he steps out into the hallway. The sudden silence drops on him like a weight. “Okay.”

Tim strides down the hall, past the three other doors of condos on his floor. There’s no one home in any of them, Tim had checked before he’d bought the condo, found out that they were all family homes and that all of the families were part time - older couples who spent the winters in more southern states.

It’s soothingly quiet, nothing but the muted thuds of his own footsteps echoing down the hall and the faint crinkle of plastic as his dinner swung from his hand. When Tim reaches his door - the last condo at the end of the hall, all of the privacy that he could find in this new place - he checks his security and finds it still armed and untriggered.

Which makes it worse when he steps into the condo and finds half of his boxes moved. Not opened, not tossed around.

Just moved. Careful deliberation showing in the shifting from where he had left them to where they were.

Obvious enough so that Tim would know, would see that Ra’s had had people in his space. Tim shakes his head and ducks, letting his hair cover his face so that he can hide the smile he almost can’t help. He gets himself under control before moving further into the room, mouth pinched and cheeks aching with the smile he will not let show.

Tim locks the door behind himself and sets the Chinese down on the small kitchen island. It takes him a few minutes to find the first camera - there are plenty of bugs with audio only, but he wants to send a visual message. Tim gathers all the bugs he can find, all sleek and League made, and makes certain that the video feed has a good shot of him smashing them beneath his boot.

“I appreciate the concerned stalking, but stop it.” Tim stares into the camera as he says it, before ripping the last bug off of the wall and crushing it as well. Once it’s gone he doesn’t have to hold back the smile any more.

Ra’s’ concern is oddly comforting as long as he keeps it just on the right side of invasive.

Just in case, Tim does another sweep of the condo and of the bedroom especially, because the thought of Ra’s watching him sleep is enough to make his skin crawl. He’s woken up one too many times to Ra’s staring at him in the dark to make it comfortable.

Multiple discussions about that had utterly failed to convince Ra’s that _watching Tim sleep_ was on the wrong side of the invasive line.

He finds nothing else, and manages to work his way through half of his reading assignments while eating at the kitchen island. Tim finds himself drifting off over the syllabus for his Africa and the Middle-East history course. The letters swim and he is leaning more and more heavily on one hand, brain desperately skipping over what is written in front of him and mixing in the details of cases that he had handed over to Dick and Bruce months ago.

What the Riddler had meant by the last clue Tim had seen, how Ivy and Harley were getting on in their admittedly rough recovery. Tim smiles, starts to make a note to check on them and make sure that Ivy’s new leaf doesn’t have any dark secrets before he catches himself, remembers that he is not that Tim any more. That he is going to study and be normal.

He is no longer Red Robin.

He _is_ going to find out who he is without the masks to hide behind.

Tim fights through a couple more paragraphs before he is forced to admit that he can’t remember even the simple bullet points that he’s been reading and gives up. There’s coffee in his hand almost before he knows, the familiar steps to brewing it taking no thought at all. He takes the coffee to his bedroom, still just as cramped with boxes and half-unpacked suitcases as the living room.

The tv is white noise, old reruns of the X-Files that flick muted light over the otherwise dark room as Tim drinks his coffee. He can’t remember what the plot of the episode is five minutes after it’s ended, but there’s enough caffeine in his system now that Tim feels like he can sleep without it being a total collapse.

He leaves the lights off, changes quickly and brushes his teeth. Rinsing the cup out in his bathroom sink makes him think of Alfred, of the old man's disapproving stare, comforting voice reminding him that it’s only a few steps to the kitchen and why not clean up properly. Tim leaves the cup in the bathroom sink, half full of water and entirely not where it belongs.

Tim drops onto his bed, sheets kicked down into a pile at the foot of the mattress already and deliberately closes his eyes.

Sleep doesn’t come for another three episodes.


	5. .......

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter is getting a specific warning. 
> 
> There is gore. Murder and violence of the bloody kind.
> 
> I don't think that it's too extreme, but if it is, let me know and I can add stronger warnings to the fic.
> 
> Again, this was supposed to be a rom-com kind of a thing. 
> 
> I have gone so far astray from the light of the Hallmark.

There’s a chill in the bedroom air that makes them stir, a slight whisper of a breeze where there shouldn’t be one. They roll over, fingers grasping at the sheet and curling further beneath its thin comfort. 

They like the cold, most of the time. 

The dark isn’t quite as dark as it should be when they open their eyes, but they have been getting used to that, over the last few years. They need less. Less light. Less warmth. They shiver, but it’s not the cold. 

There’s a...

They have struggled to describe it to others, over the years. A pulse. An...expansion. Warmth, but not warmth. Just...more. More of themself. More of everything. 

They do want more. 

They want it a lot. 

Still, that is not what woke them. 

The creak of a floorboard from behind them is odd, out of place. The house speaks, as only old buildings can, but this is not the house's voice. 

A whisper, a growl from inside of their own skull. 

Sadness. 

Hunger.

The warmth from the hallway light brushes against their skin, even through the sheet and the shirt that they wear to sleep in. They can taste the sadness on the air, the desperation. It shouldn’t have come to this. Hadn’t they always said that they would take care of one another? That they were family, and everything to the other? 

But then...they were different. Even from the family. 

That was the truth, the thing that no one spoke of. 

Even now, even with the chill and the hunger growing, growing in both of them, there was a difference. 

They wait until there is a bump against the bed, until they can no longer deny what is happening, even to themselves. When they turn, it is in time to catch the knife in their hand. The blade slices through skin, crushes bone and tears muscle as it is pushed harder and harder down towards their throat. The scream that fills the little room isn't theirs, it is their brother's.

He is tall, drawn thin against the faint backlighting of the hall, and thinner now than he had been before the beginning of the year. He screams, and pushes, and when that doesn't work -- when they flex their bleeding hand and long fingers scrabble at the hilt of the knife, trying to pry his hands off of it -- he throws himself back and starts to run down the hall. 

He didn’t even bring a second weapon. 

Foolish. 

The wound itches, their flesh trying to heal around the knife. They stand, bare feet on a newly stained rug, and tug the knife free. 

“Why?” Their voice is rough, sleep and pain and hunger grumbling through them as they take the knife in their uninjured hand and move out into the hallway. “Brother.”

“It’s just us now. Can’t you tell?” His voice comes from behind a closed door. He’s trapped himself, locked himself in. More foolishness. “I felt it tonight. There are no others.”

“I know.” They smile, their lips stretching, teeth long and sharp in their mouth. The knife wound is almost gone, a faint line beneath the blood and the tiny bones in their hand start knitting back together. 

Healing, and then changing. 

They run their fingers along the wall as they walk and there is a scratching, groaning sound as their nails dig into the wood paneling and it peels away.

Their stomach growls.

“We knew we would be the last, remember? We talked about this. We’re going to be together.” 

“I can’t. We can’t. It passed through me, don’t you see? I felt them and then they were gone, and it’s just me. It won’t be us. It will be _you_ and I can’t let that happen! You know--” His voice is high and terrified and it makes their heart beat faster, their mouth water. 

There’s a stretch, a pull inside of them. They would say that it hurt, if there was anyone there to ask them. But the only one is their brother, and he is beginning to matter less than the wind blowing through the trees. 

They dig their fingers into the door. Their nails look almost black in the light of the hallway, long and strong and a part of them laughs at the sight of their _claws_ tearing through the thick wood quickly. Their brother is just screaming now. There might be words but they can’t hear anything but the high whines of a trapped animal. 

The door creaks and shatters, splinters flying everywhere and they have a glimpse of their brother, can trace the lines of his veins beneath his skin, heat and blood calling to them and then there is an explosion and they can’t see anything at all. 

They’re on the floor, they think, cold wood against the bare skin of their back. There’s no sound, no scent, nothing but a feeling of _wrong_ and the sudden inability to breathe. Part of them is screaming, their mouth opens and blood pours in, flooding down their throat. They try to swallow but all they get is more blood filling their mouth, drowning them. 

There’s something, the feel of wood beneath their fingers and they dig into it just to see if they still can. The claws they had been so pleased with are carving useless furrows into the floor. Splinters drive into the thin flesh of their fingers and they gasp, blood bubbling out from between their lips. The floor shakes, thudding steps that move closer. They open their eyes, find that they are clotted with blood and blurry but they can see their brother, his mouth moving as he kneels down next to them. He has the knife. They must have dropped it when they fell, when they were...shot?

Shot. 

The pieces of the bullet in their chest burn, shifting and sliding with every struggling breath. Each shard digs through their body, lines of fire that move through their lungs, down into the flesh of their back.

Their brother is talking, they think, though they can’t hear anything but their own attempts to breathe. The knife is nothing when it slides into their arm, pressure and blood but there’s so much of it already. Their blood fills their mouth and it’s hot. Delicious. The room smells of copper and _hunger_. 

They swallow, throat finally working and the blood doesn’t bubble and hiss with each breath any longer. They can feel the heat of it working through their body, an accompaniment to the worming burnt paths of the bullet fragments. 

The sound of their brother pulling flesh from their bones is wet, ripping. There’s not much there for him. 

They are always searching for more, themselves. 

“-it’s going to be me. I’m sorry. You’re a monster. You let it do what it wants, you always have. I’ll be able to control it.” His voice is shaking, afraid. 

He struggles to take the first bite. They watch out of the corner of their eye as he pales, heaves. Chews and forces himself to swallow, hands pressing to his mouth to keep the chunk from coming back up. 

It doesn’t matter. 

Flesh can be replaced. 

The bullet fragments breach the skin of their back and the sudden small stabs of pain are a relief as the warmth of their own blood replaces the violent burning of the metal being inside of them. 

Blood runs out from the corners of their mouth, coating their neck. It’s sticky, thick. Their tongue flicks against their lips, tasting.

Their brother doesn’t want to look at them. 

Weakness. 

They scratch their nails into the wood, a thin cry escaping. Their brother looks at them, eyes focusing on their lips. They whisper, and their brother flinches. 

“What do you want? You’re dying. We’ll be together after this.” He looks down at the lump of their flesh in his hand. “I love you. You-”

Their mouth moves again, words silent but their eyes pleading. He shakes his head, sets down the piece of their arm and leans forward.

“What-” 

They whip their arm around his back and drag him closer, talons digging into his arm, then through it and into his chest. He screams, and must be reaching for the knife, but it doesn’t matter. Their teeth are in his throat, and then his throat is in their mouth. 

Warm and thick and delicious. 

They swallow, and laugh, deep and delighted. They push his body over, and roll to their hands and knees, their head aching, chest burning as the bullet wound continues to heal. His eyes stare up at them, vacant and dull.

“Don’t worry,” They growl out through a mouth that is no longer shaped for easy words, “We won’t leave you behind. We love you too.”


End file.
